


in my heart and my hips

by pumpkinless



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU - Modern but also Futuristic, Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, Cat Ears, Cock Warming, Collars, Couch Sex, Dom/sub, Hair-pulling, Happy Birthday Shiro!, Light Bondage, Light Face Slapping, M/M, Married Sheith, Pet Play, Praise Kink, Riding, Road Head, Shiro (Voltron) Has a Large Cock, Size Kink, but also domestic bliss, love that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 11:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinless/pseuds/pumpkinless
Summary: "Am I ever good for you?""You got dressed up for me," Shiro says. He won’t look over at Keith but Keith can’t stop staring at him from the corner of his eye. "You don't think that means you want to be good for me?"“It’s your birthday,” Keith answers. “I’m indulging you.”





	in my heart and my hips

**Author's Note:**

> this is later than i wanted to post it, but this fic was literally half the length two days ago and sometimes fic punches you in the face and forces you to keep writing! so here's more kinky married sheith.....i'm sorry i'm so predictable but i hope you enjoy xoxo
> 
> title from "next in line" by walk the moon (two walk the moon titles in a row for me!)

Keith wakes Shiro up by kissing his eyelids one by one and murmuring, “Good morning,” over and over until Shiro’s nose scrunches with wakefulness. He watches with a soft smile on his face as Shiro blinks open bleary eyes, reveling in the way Shiro’s expression goes from confused to pleased in the blink of an eye. He’s so beautiful in the morning, his hair mussed and jaw scratchy with stubble. Keith presses a sweet, close-mouthed kiss to his chapped bottom lip.

“Happy birthday.”

“Hmn.” Shiro takes a deep breath and heaves it out in a sigh, and when his eyes reopen, they’re clearer than before. “Thanks, baby,” he says. He strokes a thumb over Keith’s cheek, clumsy but still admiring.

Keith presses back into the touch. “I’m making breakfast,” he says, feeling suddenly shy. “’S just waffles and coffee, but . . . .”

“I love you,” Shiro whispers, the warmth in his eyes indescribable.

“You too.” They kiss again, Keith leaning even closer for a better angle, a deeper kiss, and it’s then that Shiro twists out of the embrace.

“I have morning breath,” he protests, struggling to sit up.

Keith lets him up but doesn’t allow him to go very far; he follows Shiro, seating himself in his lap and kissing his jaw, loving the fierce, real way it bristles against his lips. He wraps his arms around Shiro’s neck and wishes he’d had the foresight to shed his shirt before climbing back into bed with Shiro. Skin to skin is clearly superior.

“You don’t hear me complaining about that,” Keith whispers into Shiro’s prickly skin, and then he kisses him, tongue to tongue, morning breath and all.

Shiro’s arm wraps around him in return, hand stroking up and down Keith’s back as they kiss. It’s full of familiarity, passion, and not a small bit of excitement as Keith rocks his hips down just the slightest bit. He can think of a lot of things they can do before they totter out to the kitchen so Keith can cook the waffle batter while Shiro eats freshly cut strawberries and sips on steaming hot coffee. Most tempting is the thought of pushing down their sweatpants just enough so Keith can grind right up against Shiro, can take them both in hand and let Shiro pant into his mouth and pull his hair. He could even be convinced into a blowjob, get his mouth on Shiro’s cock and moan around it while stuffing a hand down his own pants and rutting into it until they both come.

Keith whimpers into the kiss when Shiro nips at his bottom lip, and then there’s a hand in his hair to pull him back. Keith’s chest heaves and he takes in Shiro’s dark eyes and red mouth, and when he rolls his hips down, that’s definitely Shiro hard beneath him.

“Insatiable,” Shiro breathes, and he puts his hand in the middle of Keith’s chest and topples him over backward.

Keith expects Shiro to follow, expects a body pressing down on him and a mouth claiming his, but he gets nothing but Shiro’s hot gaze boring down at him. It’s a good look, what with the shoulders, the definition of his chest, the ring hanging on a golden chain around his neck, and the way his dark nipples are peaked, practically begging Keith to put his mouth on them. Shiro snorts softly, and Keith doesn’t bother feeling embarrassed at how long it takes him to raise his gaze back up.

“What?” he demands, and Shiro just shakes his head and smiles.

“I know what you want,” he says, “and I say you’re going to wait until tonight.”

“But,” Keith starts, trying so hard not to whine. He reaches a hand out and laces his fingers through Shiro’s. “It’s your birthday; I wanna take care of you.”

“Uh-huh.” Shiro pulls him up without any real effort and nuzzles into Keith’s neck. If he’s not careful, he’s going to leave a red patch of skin there for Keith to savor and his coworkers to make fun of. “Save it for tonight. Remember, we have plans?”

“If I had known making plans meant you wouldn’t let me blow you—”

Shiro cuts him off with a kiss, practically laughing into Keith’s mouth as he holds him close but not quite all the way in his lap again. Probably a good choice and all, considering that Keith would love nothing more than to grind in Shiro’s lap until they both reach a messy, well-deserved end.

Shiro isn’t letting him have that right now.

“Breakfast?” Shiro asks hopefully once the kiss comes to its natural end. He smiles so brightly at Keith, and it’s impossible to deny him.

“Fine,” Keith says, relenting and squirming out of Shiro’s hold and off the bed. He plucks the prosthetic arm from its charging port on the nightstand and hands it over to Shiro on his way out the door, the motion easy with the history of routine.

“You’re pouting,” Shiro says, clicking the arm in place. It beeps quietly to let him know the connection was successful, and Shiro rolls his arm at the shoulder like he does every morning.

“I’m not pouting.”

“Oh, I think you’re pouting.”

The words follow Keith out into the hallway—he isn’t _pouting,_ thank you, it’s just that he really wanted to start the day off right. Nothing starts a day off right like a blowjob. Shiro has his whole thing about patience, though, and even more than that, he likes the game of teasing, of knowing he has Keith waiting at his beck and call.

Normally Keith would agree that holding off in the short term makes their games more enjoyable in the long term. But Keith also doesn’t get very many chances to get his mouth around a still sleepy Shiro, to gently coax him the rest of the way into hardness with careful licks and hooded eyes while Shiro grows in his mouth, getting thicker, harder.

So the fact that he absolutely had that chance today, only to have it yanked out from underneath him at the last moment by Shiro’s weird waiting kink? Annoying.

Okay, maybe he is pouting.

Pouting or not pouting, Keith still has a cup of coffee and a bowl of batter waiting for him in the kitchen, so he plugs in the waffle iron and waits for it to heat up. Sipping out of his mug, he listens to the pipes hiss as Shiro uses the bathroom, almost definitely giving in to the urge to brush his teeth. Keith maintains that drinking coffee with fresh, minty breath is disgusting, while Shiro maintains that getting up without brushing his teeth first thing is equally if not more disgusting.

Keith’s timing is perfect—Shiro shuffles into the kitchen, still deliciously shirtless and stubble-ridden, at the exact time Keith pulls the first waffle off the griddle, perfectly crispy and golden brown. He sets it on a plate already ringed with precisely sliced and arranged strawberries and hands it off to Shiro.

“Thank you, baby.” Shiro kisses him on the cheek, and Keith, embarrassingly, blushes at it in genuine shyness.

That’s one of the few things Shiro can do anymore to get that kind of reaction out of him. Keith likes to pretend he’s immune to how sweet Shiro can get but there’s something about a kiss on the cheek that makes his stupid brain titter as if he’s a child again. Immunity is a defensive mechanism, honed over years and years to ensure that Keith survives daily interaction with a man who fits an obscenely high number of attractiveness categories—he’s cute, hot, muscular, charming, swoon-worthy, whatever. There are more words but Keith will get flustered again if he thinks about it anymore.

Instead, he makes direct eye contact with Shiro’s nipples while Shiro focuses on spreading butter and maple syrup over his waffle. Keith is still turned on from earlier, still feeling mildly cheated out of a morning of slow sex. He’s definitely half hard in his briefs right now.

“It’s not gonna happen,” Shiro says mildly, not looking up.

Keith sniffs and relinquishes the view to turn back to the still-cooking waffle iron. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shiro hums and doesn’t press the point.

Keith finishes the waffles and they eat side by side, ankles hooked around each other out of habit. Shiro crunches happily through his waffle with one hand settled on Keith’s knee under the table, occasionally turning the touch into something more like a caress, but he maintains a courteous appearance.

Keith feeds Shiro the last few bites of his waffle, too full to continue on, and Shiro goes to grab the coffee pot to top off both of their mugs. It’s quiet and familiar, the perfect start to what promises to be a very long day, and Keith tangles their fingers together again. He loves holding Shiro’s hand, and at this point, he’s willing to take what contact Shiro will give him.

Underneath his skin, electricity dances—they’ve been planning and talking about this for so long, playing games that hinted at it but never went far enough to satisfy either of them.

He wants to call the Garrison and have both of them take the day off. He’d love to, but Shiro wants to _wait._

They load their plates into the dishwasher together. Keith wraps up the two remaining waffles for a later breakfast while Shiro wipes down the waffle iron. Shiro disappears for a moment and Keith scrubs at the drips of waffle batter on the counter, annoyed with himself for letting it get dry and make his life harder.

Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s waist from behind. “I brought you something.” His voice is deep, rumbling out of his chest with a quiet power. Keith wants to bury himself in that sound and never come up for air.

Keith matches his low tone. “Thought I was supposed to give you the present on your birthday.”

“Think of this as more of a reminder.”

With deft fingers, Shiro unhooks the gold chain hanging from Keith’s neck. He fumbles with the necklace for a moment out of Keith’s sight, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of something sliding down the chain and clinking gently against Keith’s wedding ring. He swallows, fingers gripping tight at the edge of the counter.

Shiro kisses the back of his neck as he refastens the necklace. Keith glances down at it and sees precisely what he expected: a recently purchased silver tag. This isn’t exactly the same thing as wearing the whole collar in public, but it’s damn close.

He turns around in Shiro’s arms, wordless, and Shiro accepts a deep kiss while their fingers intertwine.

“You ready for tonight?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah.” Keith clears his throat and tries to gain back some semblance of coherency. “Pick me up from work at five?”

“You got it.” Shiro squeezes his hand and then pulls it to his lips to kiss the back of it. Keith tries not to let it affect him so utterly, but there’s something very dark and hungry in Shiro’s eyes that he wants to drown in.

Keith doesn’t know how he’s going to go the whole day without him.

***

Work is eight hours of sexually charged torture.

Keith is on a rotation in engineering right now, helping with upgrades on a shuttle heading back out to space in about two months. Usually, working in the repairs bay is a much better deal than teaching basic engineering to eighteen-year-old recruits who don’t care much about what anyone has to say at nine in the morning. Today, though, the solitary nature of the work means Keith has nothing to do but think about the weight of his necklace and the proprietary way Shiro had touched him while putting it around his neck.

God. The day drags and drags and _drags,_ and the whole time Keith knows Shiro is just across the base, tucked away in his office. Knowing full well he’s torturing Keith and letting it turn him on just as much as it does Keith.

Five o’clock really cannot come fast enough.

It's a trick and a half to get changed in the tiny bathroom by the back door to the ship hangar. He strips out of his grubby coveralls in the locker room like usual and then snags his duffel bag to make a break for it.

He doesn’t usually leave work with time still to go on his shift, but he doubts anyone will care if he misses the last ten minutes. Too many people have used Keith as a proxy today to wish Shiro happy birthday, which Keith is pleased about as the husband of such a beloved man but annoyed with as someone who is not that man’s secretary. On the bright side, it also means that all he got for ducking out early was a salacious wink from Rizavi.

On the downside, he had to endure a salacious wink from Rizavi.

There are worse things out there in the world, though, and one of them is the fact that whoever designed engineering bay two didn’t feel the need to make this bathroom any bigger than one on a commercial plane.

Keith struggles out of his jeans and T-shirt and into the outfit he brought. He doesn’t fully understand the appeal of it if he’s honest, but it shows a lot more skin than he would normally be caught dead baring and that’s generally a good indication an outfit is sexy. It’s kind of pin-up-ish, he supposes, if pin-ups wore clunky combat boots and black high-waisted shorts. He moves his wedding ring to its rightful place on his finger and slips the silver tag inscribed with his husband’s name back onto the D-ring of the collar. He hasn’t worn the collar yet—Shiro bought it for this very scene, and Keith knows enough about leather to recognize beautiful artisanship when he sees it. Hand sewn, Shiro had mentioned, which probably means he got it on Etsy.

Keith gets as far as holding it up to his neck, pressing the leather against his throat, but he finds he doesn’t want to put it on by himself.      

It’s a complex feeling, one that wars within him, but he admits the truth of it. He wants Shiro to collar him, to mark his ownership like he did this morning in the kitchen they share. He looks incomplete without the collar, knows it’s supposed to sit on his neck like the most natural thing in the world, but it’s not time yet.

Besides, even if the outfit itself is a little ridiculous, it’s what Shiro wants and he’ll probably love the chance to buckle the collar around Keith’s neck. This whole thing is what he asked for in a hushed voice, whispered into Keith’s hair as if he couldn’t bear to say it to his face. Keith is sort of helpless to disagree where Shiro is concerned, and he knows Shiro is the same in return.

It’s hard to say no to trying new things in bed when your track record together stacks the odds heavily in favor of both of you loving it every time.

He backs up as far as he can from the tiny wall-mounted mirror to get a solid look at himself. The shorts make his legs look miles long; the cut of the long sleeved crop top emphasizes the smallest part of his waist. Keith knows his husband very well, knows this is exactly what he likes and what gets him hot under the collar, and Keith relishes the opportunity to drive him wild.

He straightens the neckline of his shirt and tucks his hair up into a messy half bun. Appeal aside, Keith knows he looks hot, and he intends to make sure Shiro knows just how good he can look.

His phone rings, sharp and shrill in the silence. Keith jumps despite himself, and he fumbles to answer the call.

“Shiro,” he says, his greeting oddly breathless with excitement.

“Hey, babe.”

It still makes Keith’s toes curl in his boots sometimes, the way Shiro says such casual, intimate things to him like that. Gets his heart pounding and face hot, too, like this is their first date all over again and Shiro’s trying so hard to act as if he doesn’t want to stick his hands up Keith’s shirt and map out the softness of his skin. Years and years in, and Keith still just can’t get enough.

“Hey yourself,” Keith replies into the phone, trying to keep his tone level. “I’m all done here.”

“Awesome.” The line crackles for a second, and then Shiro says, “I’m not too far from engineering right now—pick you up in five?”

“Mhmm. It’s pouring, by the way.”

Shiro laughs, warm and honeyed. “I can see that.”

“I’m gonna get wet.” Keith grew up in this desert and he does not care for rain in general, but in an outfit like this, it’s even worse. The sensation of water hitting his bare legs and tight shirt isn’t going to be fun at all.

“And what do you want me to do about that?”

Keith licks his lips. “Pull up to the back,” he breathes into the phone. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

He ends the call before Shiro can answer him. It feels appropriate, like part of their game.

Five minutes.

His hand shakes minutely as he unzips the side pocket of the duffel bag, pulling out the final two pieces of his—well, if Keith calls it a costume, he’s going to start feeling stupid. His outfit. He settles the cat ears headband in his hair and uncaps the eyeliner pencil. Slowly, he drags the liner over his cheeks, three little lines on each side, almost even but not quite. He meant to make them match perfectly, but maybe that was a little ambitious for the first time. Keith will take sort of lopsided and cute instead.

The phone chimes.

_I’m here,_ the screen reads.

Keith sucks in a breath and lets it out in something that’s almost a full body shiver. He does a quick check of the bathroom around him, making sure he isn’t about to leave behind anything incriminating, and then he swings his bag back up into his arms. Arousal simmers hotter in his belly—it’s been there for so long, watching, waiting for Keith to give in finally, and now it’s time.

He darts from the bathroom, slipping across the last few feet to the door. Pushing it open rewards Keith with a face full of humid air and splattering rain, and he hopes that the eyeliner will survive. He didn’t think to buy waterproof, considering this isn’t usually a problem in the desert.

Shiro idles right outside, thoughtfully parked with the passenger side facing Keith and waiting for Keith to fling himself inside. He sprints across the twenty uncovered feet between them, getting rain in his hair, on his skin, and there’s something so shocking and exhilarating about it. Keith throws himself into the car with laughter bubbling on his lips, tossing his bag into the footwell, and he gets two hands in Shiro’s shirt and hauls him right on in for a kiss. He needs to share the joy, the nervous energy, the crackling feeling of arousal and excitement. He hopes Shiro is hard. He hopes Shiro’s been half hard all day, waiting, thinking about Keith, and imagining what he’s going to look like wearing the clothes Shiro picked out for him.

Wonders if he thought at all about pulling back from a desperate kiss to admire his husband dressed up like his fantasy.

Shiro wears his leather jacket, the one he’s had for so long that it just smells like him and the vague musk of leather. Keith loves to wrap up in that thing, loves how small and safe it makes him feel, and as he settles himself in the car, nearly soaked through from skittering through the downpour, Shiro takes it off and hands it over as a consolation prize for the rain.

“Thanks,” Keith says. He wriggles into it, watching Shiro’s eyes trace his abs in the wide gap between his shirt’s hem and the waist of his shorts.

“You’re welcome, baby,” Shiro finally replies, several beats too late to be subtle. Keith gets the impression that Shiro isn’t particularly trying for subtlety right now, though. “No collar?”

Keith licks his lips and holds it up in his hands, an offering. “I couldn’t—not without you.”

Shiro’s eyes burn into him. He takes the collar, wordless, and the leather slips through his hands, smooth and supple. Keith presents his neck, tipping his head back but never breaking their held gaze.

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers. He traces his knuckles down the line of Keith’s throat and presses them briefly into the hollow at the base of it. Keith shudders under the touch and pushes into it, welcoming.

The leather is cool to the touch and Shiro’s hands tremble as he buckles it around Keith.

That’s good. That’s really, really good, as good or better than the way it feels to have Shiro hook a finger into the front ring and tug, just a little. The tag jingles loud in the quiet space, underscored by the splatter of rain on the roof of the car.

“Good boy,” Shiro whispers. Keith tries not to pant after him like a cat in heat.

The withdraw is as slow moving as honey and their eyes are the last to leave each other. Shiro’s metal hand lands on Keith’s thigh as he throws the car into motion, the spread of his palm wide over Keith’s skin. Keith swallows hard; it’s almost monstrous how much he likes their size difference, how Shiro’s hands seem so big Keith swears one could wrap fully around his thigh. As fingertips slide further in, pressing against the tender skin of Keith’s inner thighs, Keith raises his gaze to look out the windshield. He shifts, slow, propping his right knee up against the door. Shiro takes advantage of the extra room, and Keith holds his breath as Shiro’s pinky finger grazes the hem of his shorts.

It’s possible Keith forgot between seeing himself in the mirror and now exactly how short these shorts are, because he realizes with startling clarity how close Shiro’s fingers are to his dick and exactly how much he needs them there immediately. He shifts down, tries to get Shiro to tease him somewhere he’ll really feel it, but Shiro touches Keith as if he isn’t really even there, careless and demanding.

The drive out of the huge Garrison compound is completely silent except for Keith’s hitched breaths every time Shiro glides a finger just under Keith’s shorts, far enough in to make him squirm but never enough to give him any satisfaction. Keith is determined to hold out as long as Shiro can, but Shiro’s always had more of an appetite for teasing than Keith has for being teased.

Until he doesn’t anymore.

They pass the final gate, Shiro saluting the guard booth with a lazy hand, and the world around them fades to dusky gray as the rain clears up. Shiro squeezes Keith’s thigh once, as if in warning, and then lets go of it. Keith hardly has time to feel the loss before Shiro’s fingers slip up into his hair, threading through the strands at the back of his head while his thumb presses into the hollow space just behind Keith’s ear. It makes him melt, makes him push back into Shiro’s touch more than he’d like to admit.

"You look good today," Shiro says, seemingly out of nowhere. Keith wants to laugh in his face—Shiro doesn't spend thirty seconds straight looking him over while he gets in the car, practically eye fucking him, just because he looks good. He knows how to read Shiro’s face and there’s nothing nearly so subdued about how he really feels.

"Thanks," Keith says instead. It's more polite.

A sharp tug and all Keith's nerve endings fire at once. His mouth falls open. Shiro asks his next question the same lazy, expectant way he asks Keith to pass the salt at dinner: "Are you gonna be good for me today?"

Keith licks his lips and rasps, "Am I ever good for you?"

"You got dressed up for me," Shiro says. He won’t look over at Keith but Keith can’t stop staring at him from the corner of his eye. "You don't think that means you want to be good for me?"

“It’s your birthday,” Keith answers. “I’m indulging you.”

Shiro laughs, dry and warm. “You’ll be good for me,” he decides, and he lets go of Keith’ hair for the briefest moment to trace his fingers across the edge of the collar and tug on the little silver heart that says _Shiro’s._ He pushes Keith’s hair back from his ear when his hand returns to the collar, Shiro says fondly, “My kitty.”

When he says it like that—well. All the blood rushes to Keith’s face and ears, but he tries not to let it show how much he likes it when Shiro's voice drops to that register, voice rumbling straight out of his chest. And the _words,_ god, possessiveness does something to Keith, always has. Hearing Shiro talk about him like that, like his and his alone, almost an object but one that is so beloved—

Keith wishes they were home. He needs to be home right now.

But Shiro has one hand on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road with a fastidiousness that belies their current situation and Keith’s increasing desperation.

Keith watches as Shiro zips right on by the turnoff for the long private drive to their house, taking a left at the next intersection to bring them out to the empty desert roads that most days don’t feel like they go much of anywhere. Keith might not know exactly what Shiro wants from him all the way out here, but they both know Keith will do anything to make it happen.

That doesn't mean he's going to make it easy for him.

Keith huffs, tosses his head a little to dislodge Shiro's grip. Shiro responds by tightening his fingers even more and tugging Keith's head to the side at an angle that almost hurts, makes his whole body duck to follow it. Keith's fingers spasm and he grips the door for something to do.

"I think you know how to be good for me," Shiro says. The incongruity of his velvet voice while they're going sixty, sixty-five, seventy down wide-open roads makes Keith's blood burn, and he stretches his neck toward Shiro even more. "C'mon. You know what I want."

Keith does, now. Still, he lets Shiro herd him down, lets him bend Keith over the center console until he's got a cheek mashed against Shiro's dick, hard in his pants and so good. He can feel the shift of Shiro's muscles in his thigh as he brakes, maybe for a stop sign, and then speeds up again.

Keith traces the outline of Shiro's dick with his fingers. He's big—always bigger than Keith remembers, and Keith's never thought about choking himself on Shiro's cock in a situation quite like this, but there's a first time for everything.

"Take it out, kitty."

He doesn't need the instruction. Keith wants it so bad he doesn't need any encouragement at all. But hearing it, something contrary rises up inside him and Keith hums instead, rubbing two fingers over the denim where he can feel the head of Shiro's cock. He presses his face in harder, drags his teeth over Shiro's hip and marvels at how thick he is. Keith swears he can smell Shiro, that he can differentiate the musky scent of Shiro's cock from the bland denim and Shiro's usual cologne.

It makes Keith moan. He's shameless, one hand clutching at Shiro's leg while he licks over the strip of fabric covering the zipper.

“Stop teasing,” Shiro demands. Keith looks up at him and Shiro glances down, and Keith loves this angle. Loves it even more when Shiro sighs in disappointment. “Your whiskers are smudged.”

Keith had forgotten about the whiskers. He sighs in apology, sneaking his fingertips up to toy with the button on Shiro’s jeans.

Shiro slaps him on the cheek.

It isn’t hard, doesn’t even hurt—it was more of a tap, really, a sharp one, but it catches Keith off guard, jolting his whole body. Keith’s breath hitches in his chest and his vision narrows down to his fingers undoing Shiro’s jeans, popping open the button with one hand and dragging the zipper down.

“That’s it,” Shiro murmurs. He traces the line of Keith’s headband in his hair, and it feels like no time at all that Keith has Shiro's cock out in front of him, intimidating from so close. He scratches his fingers through the hair at Shiro's base and holds it steady, glancing up at him. The car slows down again, turns left, and Shiro won't even look at him.

The only indication that Shiro is paying him any attention is a soft sigh through his nose as Keith closes his lips around the head. He takes Shiro’s cock inside him carefully, worshipfully, and his eyes close on their own.

There’s something about this situation in particular that gets to Keith, makes him raw in the moment. It’s far from the most public place he’s had his mouth on Shiro’s cock and hardly the first time he’s been so desperate and wanting, but Shiro surrounds him totally, with his taste, his scent, and his touch. It’s sweeter for having waited as long as they did.

Shiro’s patience wins the day again, of course. He’d like that, if Keith ever told him.

Shiro accelerates. It gets Keith hot, the strange danger of this moment, and he moans around Shiro’s cock. His feet scramble for purchase on the floor to fight the hold of his seatbelt and push his body farther over the console, push Shiro deeper inside him.

“C’mon, baby, take me deeper,” Shiro says, half to himself. The car turns again but Keith is too busy to pay attention to orienting himself now.

Deeper is hard. The angle is awkward, Shiro’s pants are in the way, and the car hits a pothole and Keith almost chokes himself. That’s not to mention the fact that Shiro’s cock is a hefty ask on a good day, thick and hot in Keith’s mouth and so good, and he wishes he could be better at this.

A hand lands on Keith’s ass, huge and rough as it grabs at him. Keith jolts forward, gagging himself and moaning all at once, and his only indication that Shiro even notices is a deep chuckle.

Shiro’s fingers press hard against Keith’s ass, rubbing at his hole over his shorts. Keith whimpers, pushing back into it, but all it gets him is Shiro grabbing again, so hard it feels like his touch is gonna bruise, and yanking Keith back toward him.

For a moment, Keith is shoved so far down on Shiro’s dick that his nose is smashed into the crease of Shiro’s thigh, making it impossible to breathe. His mind goes hazy at that, at the smell of skin, the sensation of breathlessness, and he loses his mind in the struggle of it all. He wants to make it good for Shiro, to make it hot and slick and sloppy and let Shiro take whatever he wants. He can have it all, anything, and more than that.

“There you go, kitty,” Shiro murmurs. His voice strains at his throat and Keith flushes with renewed vigor. He loves hearing what he’s done to Shiro.

The car keeps driving. Keith is as lost as can be, his internal compass off kilter. He doesn’t know how long Shiro wants them to be out here, but Keith will make the best of it. He wriggles around, shifting position until he can get a hand wrapped securely around Shiro’s cock. Bracing himself on Shiro’s thick thighs, Keith tries every trick he knows Shiro will lose his mind over—sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, circling his tongue around the head, getting careless with the mess.

It startles him when the car stops. Keith pops his head up, panting for breath, and discovers that they’ve made it home somehow without him even noticed.

And Shiro hasn’t even come yet.

The thought upsets him, and as Shiro cuts the engine, Keith splits his lips open again around the head as if he’s the one who needs something more out of this. Shiro indulges him for a moment, tracing the shell of Keith’s ear. He sighs, sounding satisfied.

Keith moans around him, hums his pleasure at taking care of Shiro right into the act of it, and it gets him fingers stroking through his hair again.

He’ll make Shiro come. He’ll make it happen, right here, or he would if Shiro wasn’t nudging him away.

“Let me—” Keith starts. _Let me move, find a better angle, get out of the car and kneel on the ground of our garage for you, like the cheapest—_

“No,” Shiro says, hushed, stopping Keith’s move toward the door handle. “No, baby, I like you like this. C’mere, kitty.”

He guides Keith in with a tight hold, hand fisted in the back of his hair so as not to upset the cat ears perched on top. He pushes Keith’s mouth all the way down his cock, holds him there while Keith sputters and feels the first tears leak from the corner of his eye. He slides one hand up underneath Shiro’s shirt just to get the grounding touch of skin. Shiro chooses that moment to tug him back up.

Shiro holds him there, hovering just above where Keith desperately wants to be.

“Shiro, _please.”_

Shiro’s cock lands on his cheek with a wet little smack, just to the side of his begging mouth, and Keith gasps at the shock of it. Shiro leaves his cock there and thumbs a falling tear away from Keith’s skin.

“You wanna be good for me?”

Keith nods, frantic. All his resistance is gone—he’s hard and aching, he’s gotten a taste of Shiro and he needs more. It isn’t a question worth asking anymore, but Shiro gets off on Keith obeying him and Keith will indulge him until the world comes down around them both.

Shiro slips a thumb just inside Keith’s mouth, pressing down on his bottom lip and studying its give with an intense gaze. He pushes against the point of one of Keith’s canines. His knuckles smear the spit on Keith’s chin, and Keith wishes he thought it nasty.

“You can be a good kitty for me,” Shiro says, dragging like velvet over sandpaper. “Maybe if you’re good for me, I’ll give you some milk later.”

On the inside, Keith snaps. He burns with embarrassment.

His eyes slide shut and his mouth closes on Shiro’s thumb, sucking and tongue prodding against its underside as if it was his cock instead. It strikes Keith then that he never expected to be quite so hot for this; it was something he wanted to do for Shiro, because of Shiro, and Keith’s general approach to trying new things in the bedroom is that if Shiro wants it, Keith is willing to try. Some things don’t get to him quite the same way they do to Shiro—Shiro, for example, likes to come all over Keith’s hole and then bury his face in it like a starving man. Keith is ambivalent, except for how much he enjoys Shiro’s enjoyment and that, generally, Shiro’s tongue is soothing after Keith has just been pried open by him.

This . . . this is not like that. This is something Keith finds truly, whole-heartedly hot, so scorching it could vaporize him on the spot.

“Kitty?” Shiro asks. His voice is steel, always steel when they’re playing these games, but it’s still a moment of pause for Keith to metaphorically get his feet back underneath him.

He takes a breath, lets Shiro’s thumb out of his mouth, and he takes a quick mental stock of himself. His back aches from leaning over the console, his jaw is sore, his own dick throbs so hard in his shorts that he wants to cry, and none of these things make him want to call anything off. They’re fuel for the fire.

But as much as Keith would be delighted to stay here and let Shiro rend him into an achy, shaking mess, he has a good feeling about what might happen if they leave the car.

He shifts back just enough to fix Shiro with wide, pleading eyes. “Inside?” he asks, pitching his voice into innocence.

Shiro nods, looking shocked, and it takes him a moment to swing into action.

He rights his pants just enough to get out of the car, and they don’t make it more than the two feet to the door into the house before they’re kissing. Keith plasters himself against Shiro’s chest like a window cling to glass, his hands pawing at Shiro’s white T-shirt. Shiro nearly crushes Keith against the mudroom wall, mouth biting haphazardly at Keith’s neck while his fingers flex on Keith’s waist, right on the skin between his shirt and shorts and underneath the leather jacket hanging off his body, too big on Keith to look like anything other than his husband’s coat.

Then Keith loses the jacket, the weird crop top he still doesn’t understand, and the shorts and his underwear come off just one of his ankles. Shiro pushes him up against the wall again, grabbing both of Keith’s thighs and hoisting him up. And the shorts just get to dangle there.

It’s unclear how Shiro’s managed to keep all his clothes on and Keith is naked but for the collar and the ears still perched right on top of his head. They both managed to kick their shoes off. Maybe Keith’s single focus on the hand stoking his cock teasingly, taunting, is what’s destroying his focus.

In his sappy moments, Keith thinks they’re a match made in heaven. In his hotter, hornier moments, he thinks Shiro was designed specifically as a form of temptation that Keith doesn’t want to even bother resisting.

This is a horny moment.

Shiro’s hands are all over Keith, a different spot every second, but the touch can’t be called fleeting because he presses hard and makes sure every touch counts. Possession means so much when the person you’re giving yourself over to wants you almost as much as you want them, and Keith would give himself over any day.

“Fuck,” Shiro grunts, tearing himself away from Keith’s mouth. It’s so sudden that Keith can’t help but whine.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

He doesn’t get an answer, just another kiss and the lurching sensation of Shiro tugging the both of them back from the wall. Keith’s eyes fly open in shock and he clings harder to Shiro’s waist with his legs and arms, but their mouths never lose touch.

Shiro’s hand grips tight on Keith’s ass as he walks them through the kitchen and into their living room, pressing him down onto the couch and covering his body. Keith welcomes him in, groaning as Shiro lets his weight drop against Keith, pinning him, body so warm and solid.

The kiss ends slower, more natural this time, and Keith runs both his hands up from Shiro’s ass to scratch through the back of his hair. It’s getting long for him, just a fraction of an inch in length but enough for Keith to tug on with his fingers. He feels giddy and bubbling inside, like he’s full up on champagne or sparkling water. Shiro’s eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips twitch, and this is supposed to be a serious _scene_ but Keith just . . . Keith wants him so much.

“Shiro,” he whispers.

Shiro drops his head and their foreheads meet. Keith’s eyes flutter closed.

“You really look incredible,” Shiro says. His voice and its words are the ground Keith has built his life on, and he welcomes them. “Thank you for this.”

Keith’s fingers trail around from the back of Shiro’s head to brush a thumb across his cheekbone, sweeping over the skin with a tenderness he didn’t know he possessed. He wants to explain what it is he’s feeling, but the words don’t come.

Instead, he breaks the pattern, lifts his head up, breathes a hot breath against Shiro’s mouth, and then nips at his lip.

Shiro startles back. His eyes are wide but then he narrows them, his eyebrows slanting down and getting that cute little crease in between them.

Keith licks his own bruised lips, and he isn’t subtle about it.

Shiro grabs both of Keith’s wrists in hand and pins them above his head, pressing deep into the couch cushion with the weight of Shiro’s strength.

“Well,” Shiro says, “you’re not being a very good kitty anymore, are you?”

Keith pokes his tongue out at Shiro, just a little smug, and he gets a snort in response. Shiro shakes his head.

“I was going to give you a reward for being so good on the drive home,” he says. “But now I’m not sure if you deserve it.”

Keith smirks. If Shiro’s expecting him to beg for a prize, he has another thing coming.

But of course, because it’s Shiro, all he does is sigh like he knew it was coming. He knows Keith far too well to ever seriously think he would repent.

Of course, what Keith expects is a clear punishment. He assumes Shiro will flip him over, manhandle him roughly into whatever position Shiro wants, and slap his ass until Keith cries and forgets why they had to do that and begs Shiro to hit him harder. And, no lie, Keith is pretty excited about the prospect of that. Maybe Shiro will even go get a toy to put inside Keith while he plays, make everything just that little bit more torturous for Keith.

But Shiro lives to buck expectations and he doesn’t do any of that.

He pulls them both upright on the couch and fixes the tilt of Keith’s headband. Shiro takes the point of Keith’s chin in hand and holds him there, steady and firm. “In the bedroom,” he says, “on the bed, there’s a bag. Go bring me that and my datapad from the dresser. Understand?”

Keith nods. His dick loves it when Shiro treats him like some kind of obedient servant.

“Don’t look inside.”

An order like that is dangerous. Being told not to do something makes Keith want to do it, but he nods again and climbs off the couch, making sure to brush his ass far closer to Shiro’s face than it really needs to be. Priorities.

He wants so badly to know what’s in the black travel bag that awaits him. It makes him wonder how much of this Shiro has planned—they agreed on the major plot points, of course, but Keith left it up to Shiro to decide the finer details. And it doesn’t seem like they’re stopping anytime soon; as riled up as Keith was in the car, he’s cooled down a little, more level-headed again, and just a touch embarrassed at the little ache in his throat from how urgently he had tried to deep throat Shiro’s cock over the console of a car.

Keith brings the requisite things back to the living room and finds Shiro sitting slouched on the couch, his feet planted with legs spread wide. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where Keith is supposed to fit in this situation.

He falls to his knees.

Shiro touches his face, thick fingers caressing Keith’s cheek and tilting his head up in the same movement. He hums to himself and strokes a thumb over the scar arcing up his cheek. Keith instinctively turns into it, his eyes slipping closed, and Shiro chuckles at the way he rubs his face on Shiro’s hand right back. After all, he’s a cat right now.

“Give it here.”

Keith hands over his bounty from the bedroom and Shiro unzips it without flourish. He pulls out a long, thin strip of leather that matches the one around Keith’s neck right down to the delicate stitching pattern on the sides.

A leash.

Keith lurches closer to Shiro, craning his head as far back as he can without losing eye contact, thrusting out the D-ring at the front of his collar. His tag jingles softly.

Shiro hooks a finger through the ring and _pulls,_ lifting Keith away from sitting on his ankles so he’s leaning over Shiro’s lap, a deeply uncomfortable position that Keith holds faithfully. Shiro looks at him knowingly.

But Shiro doesn’t go for the clip at the end of the leash; he leaves it lying across his thigh and says instead, “Show me your hands.”

Keith lifts them from his knees and offers them up, fingers unfurling as Shiro pulls something else out from the bag—a shiny, satiny black ribbon. He wraps it around Keith’s wrists just above the jutting bones, not tight enough to really confine him, but the weight of it is there all the same, and Keith’s whole body rolls with the weight of it, the sheer enormity of feeling it brings.

He’s never been more deeply in love.

It’s kind of like being in a dream, all of this. Keith watches with half lidded eyes as Shiro clips the leash onto the ring of his collar and then starts to undo his own jeans. They’re the dark wash pair, the ones that make his ass look so damn good Keith privately dies every time he’s blessed with the sight of them.

The jeans only look better with the zipper open, Shiro’s shirt rucked up to display the soft hair trailing down the middle of his abs, cock jutting out and hanging heavy. There isn’t a single history of the world that holds an account of a man who looks like Shiro, no one as lovingly dominating and casually, accidentally attractive. Keith groans as he leans forward, following the taut leash until his lips meet Shiro’s head, licking away the wetness gathered at the tip.

He moans again, sucks at the head, and lets his body fall forward until his chest lays flat against the edge of the couch, his neck straining as he tries to get closer.

“Baby,” Shiro says, fond as anything. He lifts his hips to scoot down the couch and Keith follows him.

The angle is easier this way and Keith’s level of enthusiasm doesn’t change in the least. He savors how heavy Shiro feels on his tongue, both the physical weight and the knowledge of how good his hazy brain feels. He misses the use of his hands, sure, but it’s much better to try not to use them, to make to lift one to hold Shiro steady and face the reminder that Shiro doesn’t want him to do that.

For all Keith’s enthusiasm, though, he meets resistance.

“Slow down, kitty,” Shiro murmurs, holding tight to Keith’s leash to keep him in place, his mouth full of Shiro’s cock. “That’s it. Stay right there.”

Keith waits, obedient, and breathes through his nose.

They sit like that for what feels like a long while before Keith tries to nudge forward a little bit. He can take more and hold it easily and he _wants_ to make this good for Shiro. He’s not sure what exactly it is that Shiro wants, but Keith doesn’t mind being the goal oriented one for a moment.

But Shiro stops him again.

“Hey,” Shiro snaps. “I told you to stay.”

Keith whines and relents, not willing to push Shiro’s buttons. This isn’t exactly a punishment for either of them, but as bratty as Keith is, he doesn’t actually want to piss Shiro off. Some playfulness for Shiro’s birthday is to be expected.

But then Shiro doesn’t make any other moves. And that’s . . . confusing, to say the least.

In fact, the grip on the leash loses all its tension at the same moment Shiro says again, “Stay.” Keith stays, doesn’t nod or hum or twitch, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Shiro plucks the datapad from the couch beside him.

His jaw aches and he doesn’t know what Shiro is doing.

“You can get comfortable,” Shiro says. He sounds almost disinterested. “I need to read these reports.”

Keith whines in confusion. It’s the only kind of noise he has that conveys what he needs to express, and Shiro still seems to understand him.

He thumbs at the give of Keith’s mouth, at where his lips stretch wide and hungry around Shiro, spit-slick and probably so, so red. “I’m not punishing you,” Shiro explains, “but I think you can be good for me just like this, right?”

Maybe.

Keith shrugs his shoulders.

With a huff, Shiro taps the tips of his fingers harshly against Keith’s cheek. Again, it’s not quite a slap but it’s enough to startle Keith. His fingertips curl underneath the edge of the bottom of the couch, finding purchase on the lip.

_“Stay,”_ Shiro says, tone edging into snappiness.

Keith stays, but he maintains his mutinous thoughts. It turns out that this is torture, pure and simple, and his body and mind are desperately confused. His body reacts automatically to this position: on his knees between Shiro’s thighs is one of his favorite places to be and that simple fact turns him on so much he could cry.

He should be choking on Shiro’s dick right now. Shiro isn’t usually the person telling him not to do that.

And it’s infuriating to hear Shiro pick up the datapad and start tapping away on its screen. The leash goes slack, no longer keeping Keith from drawing back, and Keith just has to sit there with his mouth wrapped around Shiro’s cock.

At first, Keith tries to make it into the most subtle blowjob in the world. He swirls his tongue lazily around the head until Shiro flicks gently at his cheek and says, “Stop that.” Then he tries suction, ever so slightly, just enough to get Shiro’s forehead sweaty, but that gets Shiro’s hand in his hair, gripping tight and yanking his mouth off Shiro’s cock while Shiro says, “Do you understand what we’re doing here?”

Keith is usually more defiant, but he wants Shiro’s cock back inside his mouth.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Keith whispers. He gaze curls around the flushed head of Shiro’s cock, slick and shiny with Keith’s spit. It’s just so big, Keith can’t imagine just sitting there with it in his mouth and doing nothing.

But that’s what he does.

Shiro tugs him back down, not far enough to choke him but enough to make it slightly uncomfortable to hold the position of. It doesn’t take very long for Keith to finally relax into it and Shiro returns his attention to his datapad.

This is torture.

Still, it starts to get meditative after a while. Keith droops, sinking further into Shiro. The position gets uncomfortable so he shifts around. Shiro’s gaze peers down at him harshly from over the top of his datapad, but he allows Keith to settle to make it easier on his knees and lay his cheek against Shiro’s thigh, mouth still full and drooling spit. His eyes slide closed.

Keith doesn’t understand this. He doesn’t know what Shiro’s getting out of this half-assed blowjob that isn’t really even a blowjob, but part of this game is not letting that matter to him. He’s just—just Shiro’s pet.

Maybe he does get it, then.

The way time passes is hazy. Keith’s body gets all hot, but it’s different than arousal—he feels more like his blood is rushing to warm him up after a long time spent outside in the cold. Shiro is so warm and alive underneath him and Keith sinks deeper into him, farther into his own mind.

He doesn’t notice when it ends. He only finds himself in Shiro’s lap after an indeterminable amount of time.

Shiro kisses at his jawline, his mouth so gentle. Keith’s hands are still bound between them, but he sets him on Shiro’s chest, in search of balance, maybe. Perhaps grounding, for the livewire his body has become.

He doesn’t think Shiro was shirtless before now. His cool skin is a balm under Keith’s touch.

“You’re mine,” Shiro whispers right into his ear, and his hand twines in between Keith’s. Shiro’s fingers find the ring nestled on Keith’s fourth finger and trace its outline. “I knew you could do it. You’re my good, beautiful little kitty, and I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Keith sucks in a shuddering breath. He presses his fingers into Shiro’s skin, tries to mark him all the way down to the soul with his very fingerprints.

Shiro is relentless. This isn’t a gentle kind of care—he squeezes Keith’s ass harshly and mauls the top of his shoulder all in one go, leaving the kind of sucking, biting kiss just below the collar that Keith knows has already blossomed into an angry red mark.

And he’s on the rough side of thorough. Shiro acts impatient, and if Keith were more coherent he might be feeling indignant, considering Shiro’s had all the opportunity in the world to get off and Keith is still stuck suffering. Two slick fingers press inside him while Keith is still trying to reckon with the artful way Shiro drags his mouth all over Keith’s neck, lighting up every perfect nerve. A distraction, or maybe just a reminder of who Keith belongs to, even for long after he takes the collar off.

God, Shiro knows him so well. He knows exactly how rough Keith likes it, how best to split him open while keeping him on that knife edge  of too much too fast.

Keith shudders and presses his face into Shiro’s neck to hide. Too well, maybe.

“You need it bad, kitty, don’t you?” Shiro whispers. His breath is hot on Keith’s ear. “You’re opening up so fast for me. You’re a greedy little thing.”

Whining, Keith shoves his face deeper. His mouth meets the crook of Shiro’s neck and shoulder and he opens his mouth to set his teeth there, not biting, but it’s better than clenching his jaw at the stretch and pleasure of Shiro pushing inside him so ruthlessly.

“How much do you want it?”

Keith clings to Shiro like he might drown otherwise. He shakes his head and presses closer even though there isn’t a breath of space between them.

But Shiro is having none of it. He pushes a third finger in past Keith’s rim, heavenly but still not as big as Keith wants, and says, “Tell me what you want, kitty. Cat got your tongue?”

Keith shakes his head.

Shiro’s free hand tugs at the leash, not very hard, but Keith rears back. He kisses Shiro messily, falling into his mouth and trying to explain without words. This is their constant battle—Shiro wants to hear him talk, but Keith finds too often that Shiro makes him lose his words. Shiro surrounds him with presence and touch, and sometimes Keith just doesn’t know how to say what that means to him.

He places his bound hands right in the middle of Shiro’s chest, kisses him with a sweetness that doesn’t make sense for how strung out he is. “Please,” he whispers, right into the tiny space between their mouths.

Shiro bites Keith’s bottom lip, holds him tightly to him with a hand spread across his lower back and the other plunging deep inside Keith. Keith only knows one word, and he begs over and over again while Shiro watches him with dark, shining eyes, silent so he can take in every gasping, hungry noise Keith makes. Keith stopped trying to put on a show a long time ago; all he has now to offer Shiro is the open, gutted depth of his self, his essence flayed open for him just from Shiro’s fingers and his name on the collar around Keith’s neck.

“Are you ready, kitty?” Shiro asks. He strokes up and down Keith’s spine, letting him arc into the touch as he nods his assent. “I want you to ride me.”

Keith can do that. He can definitely do that.

Shiro’s hands leave his skin and dig through the bag still sitting beside them on the couch. Keith doesn’t know what he’s after, but he distracts himself by mapping out Shiro’s collarbone under his lips.

The unmistakable crinkle of a condom wrapper cuts through the relative silence of the room and Keith’s heart plummets.

He rears back to stare at Shiro and gets nothing but a raised eyebrow in response. Keith makes a noise of distress, squirming in Shiro’s lap to try to stop him, somehow. He tugs at the ribbon around his wrists but there’s no give, and Shiro is unwavering as he reaches between them to stroke his own cock, the head occasionally rubbing against Keith’s skin but nowhere near where they both want it.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks, still dazed with words thick in his mouth, but he needs his protest registered. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t know what to say and Shiro prompts him. “You thought I what?”

“You don’t want to—without?”

It’s embarrassing to have to say aloud what he wants, but Keith can’t stand the thought of a layer of latex between them. He hates that he could walk away from this without Shiro’s come dripping out of him, and he hates that Shiro wants to make him beg for that privilege.

 “Without,” Shiro says, deadpan, and that's when Keith catches the edge of amusement in his tone. “You telling me you want it raw, kitty?”

Keith's face burns. He nods, and he can't figure out where to look, at Shiro's face or his hands or his cock, the head a flushed angry red and so big Keith wants to cry with frustration at how empty he is. He can take it right now, all the way, he knows it, but Shiro won’t fill him up, won’t satisfy him.

“Tell me.”

“Please,” Keith begs. He tries to spread his legs wide, arch his back and roll his hips a little to make himself look more appealing but Shiro just raises an eyebrow and makes to move like he's going to put the condom on. “No!” Keith says, far more upset than he has any right to be. “I—I want it raw.”

“You're nasty,” Shiro says, finally dropping the condom to the side. It's like he can't wait much longer either. “You want me to fill you up, baby? Get you filthy inside and lick you clean afterward, just like a good kitty?”

“God, yes,” Keith moans, his head dropping back in pleasure as Shiro’s hand touches his cock.

“Hmm.” Shiro runs the tip of one finger up and over Keith’s cock. His finger gets wet from the head of Keith’s dick and the tiny puddle it’s left on his skin, and Shiro plants a widespread hand on Keith’s belly, over the sparse trail of hair Shiro loves to scratch his nails through. “You’re so pretty here, kitty. And all for me.”

Keith shows his neck off, proudly showing off the collar and its claiming tag.

“Here, put your arms over my head. You’re going to ride me,” Shiro says. He lifts Keith’s arms up and sets them so his forearms rest on Shiro’s shoulders and then pushes on Keith’s stomach until he leans back as far as he can go, muscles straining to hold him in that awkward position, but Shiro doesn’t take his eyes off where his abs have tightened. “If you want my come inside you, you have to prove you deserve it.”

_“Please.”_ Keith wouldn’t want to be anything less than deserving.

Shiro gets his dick wet, helps only by holding it in place, the head notched right up against Keith’s hole. Keith pants like he’s done far more than sit limply in Shiro’s lap like a ragdoll.

When Shiro gives him the word to go, Keith sits, slides down all the way until he bottoms out and Shiro’s jeans scrape at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. His mouth drops open on an uncontrollable moan and he braces himself on Shiro’s shoulders to force his weak, shaking thighs to lift his body up and into a slow grind. He can’t think about how deep inside him Shiro really is, about how if he looked down he might see the evidence of that from the outside, his belly showing the outline of Shiro’s cock. He can’t look because if he sees it, the hard edge of arousal will tip him over, send him sobbing into Shiro’s arms when he wants to prove to Shiro that he deserves so much more.

That doesn’t mean he stops imagining.

Shiro lets him choose the pace for a minute or two, working himself open more and more until the burn of the stretch is gone and there’s nothing but pure pleasure. Then, Shiro demands, “Faster, come on, kitty, I know you’re better than this. You want to be good for me, right?”

And of course, Keith does. Of course he wants to bounce on Shiro’s cock like a starving man, moaning in his ear to let him know how much he loves and appreciates what Shiro does to him.

Keith regrets not appreciating it more earlier, wishes he hadn’t been so mutinous while Shiro made him kneel at his feet and hold his cock in his mouth while ignoring him. His jaw aches from being pried so wide open and it only fuels him now, reminds Keith that Shiro owns him. Shiro can use him however he wants, even if all he wants is an open mouth to keep him warm.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, tears in his eyes. One spills over the edge and Shiro kisses it.

“Crying on my dick, kitty?” he asks in a low voice. “That’s just how you are—you tried so hard earlier to pretend you wanted to be in charge, but I know you. I know what you need.” Shiro sneaks a hand down to feel where he’s driving into Keith, prods at his rim. “You’re so hungry for me.”

Keith knows what’s coming. He braces himself, clinging tight to Shiro’s neck and pushing his mouth against Shiro’s jaw.

“That’s it,” Shiro says, pushing the tip of one finger inside with his cock. Keith’s tears are real and falling now. “Anything I want.”

He has to ride Shiro slower to accommodate this, the interminable, invasive stretch, the knowledge of how much he’s going to feel this later. Now, it feels like nothing crazy, just a tiny ask of Keith’s body to give a little bit more. After Shiro’s thick cock, one finger sitting snug inside him just up to the knuckle is secondary.

Shiro calls him greedy. It’s his fault; Keith was never greedy for anything until he met Shiro.

It isn’t long before Shiro comes hard, his free hand gripping Keith’s hip tight enough to bruise and holding him down, all the way down on his cock while his body shudders and he bites at Keith’s neck. Keith sobs at every sensation and lightning sparks through him, toes curling at the pleasure of being so thoroughly claimed. He’s Shiro’s, and Shiro is his.

“Fuck,” Shiro growls. He practically throws Keith off his lap, letting him bounce on the couch cushions beside them. Shiro has a refractory period, sure, but he never slows down right after coming, just as full of vengeful, hungry energy and the determination to make Keith feel as good as him. “You were so good for me, kitty, my baby.

Shiro descends on him with a righteous fury. His tongue licks over Keith’s well-fucked hole, soothing and teasing in equal parts. Keith manages to tangle his fingers in the top of Shiro’s hair and hold him down.

“Please make me come,” Keith wails. He hooks one ankle over the back of the couch to make more room for Shiro, for his perfect mouth.

Shiro wraps a hand around Keith’s cock. “Whenever you want,” he says. He bites at Keith’s thigh, sucks a bruise there. Keith bruises easily as a rule, but it doesn’t take hardly any pressure to color up his thighs with Shiro’s marks.

Keith comes hard with three fingers back inside him, Shiro jerking him off and still licking at his entrance like a starving man. He comes and Shiro backs off but he doesn’t stop his mouth moving, diving deep inside Keith to lick at the taste of himself buried inside. Keith sobs and pulls Shiro’s hair but never pushes him back, doesn’t even know how to conceptualize Shiro stopping.

He cries, he says thank you, he digs a heel into Shiro’s back. It’s so much, nothing but endless overstimulation, and Keith doesn’t notice until Shiro wraps a hand back around his dick that he’s hard again.

The second orgasm is a slow wave of tingling sensation as his cock halfheartedly jerks in Shiro’s hold. This time, as soon as it’s over, Keith can stand to be touched anymore. “Stop,” he gasps, “oh, god, Shiro, I can’t—“

“Hush.” Shiro whispers it against his skin and backs off. He kisses Keith’s hip just below his heaving stomach. “I’ve got you, baby.”

And Shiro does, of course. He tugs at the end of the ribbon to free Keith and then crawls up Keith’s body, careful not to jostle him, and wedges himself into the space between Keith and the back of the couch. He’s so warm, but Keith whines at him until he kicks off his jeans and throws them to the floor. They have no business getting in on Keith’s post-sex cuddles, not when it’s so much better to push his leg in between Shiro’s calves. He likes the way the hair on his leg brushes against Shiro’s.

It’s really nice to fling his arms around Shiro’s body again, too.

Keith turns his face into Shiro’s neck, smashing his nose on purpose to drink in the warm scent of his skin. He snuffles. “I can’t believe you read those fucking reports,” he mumbles. He’s still a little insulted by the indignity, even if it _was_ extremely hot in the end.

But Shiro laughs and hooks an ankle more firmly around Keith’s calves. “Oh, I didn’t. I was looking at vacation rentals.”

Of course. Shiro would never risk the integrity of his work just for a scene, but he’s absolutely not above making Keith think he would. “Are you telling me _you_ actually _want_ to go on vacation?” Keith asks. He tries to sound miffed, but he’s mostly just hoping his husband wants to go somewhere tropical.

“I heard Hawaii is supposed to be nice this time of year.”

Jackpot.

Keith considers raising his head to continue this conversation where they can see each other, but honestly, it’s too much effort. Keith isn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future. “Just let me know when to put in for vacation time,” Keith mumbles, and then a yawn overtakes him. “I think I’m going to sleep.”

“Of course, baby.”

Shiro’s arms disappear from around him for a moment. Keith mourns them, but when they return, Shiro drapes the soft blanket hanging from the back of the couch over them both. Keith might actually be purring right now.

“Happy birthday,” he sighs, his lips moving against Shiro’s soft, vulnerable throat. “Love you.”

Shiro’s breath hitches the tiniest bit as if he’s startled. He turns his face into Keith’s hair, pressing his cheek and mouth against the wild mess of it.

“Oh, kitty. I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! let me know what you thought & find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/disloyalpunk) for more horny married sheiths!


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